The Pros and Cons of Waking Up
by HFS
Summary: Harry J. Potter wakes up from the heat to a particular youngest Weasley boy who seems intent on depriving Harry of any peace of mind or orange juice. HPRW.


Sometime we all write stories

basically, it's too late to start this, but i'm going to anyway

enjoy

HFS

The Pros and Cons of Waking Up

Harry Potter was having dream trouble. It was not the type of dream trouble that one would expect him to get; it was in fact quite bereft of death, mayhem, green light, and the other hallmarks of his particular subconscious. He was having the terrible trouble we all have nightmares about, being forcefully awoken from a _really_ good dream.  
"No... I'm still asleep... World Cup..." Harry buried his face in a violently orange pillow, then felt the slow spread of heat across his body as it regained sensation, and told him through so many treacherous neurons that he was too hot to sleep anymore. He was, in fact, completely awake from the neck down. The rest of him was too sore to move, he felt as if gravity was doubled starting at his collarbone.  
Next to him, an amorphous blob of tangerine fabric throbbed around like an engorged amoeba. Its semipermeable membrane parted, projected a pseudopod outward, and extended a single digit skyward in a symbol of gratitude.

"Like you were gonna sleep all day anyway," retorted Harry, foolishly retaliating with his own hand gestures, which where of course ineffective on his blind bedfellow. The fiery protozoa mumbled and withdrew the limb. The hole stayed open, and a sensory organ studded probe replaced the its offensive predecessor. The probe spoke:  
"You're a dick, Harry."  
Ron Weasley was every bit as alert as Harry was, his eyes narrowed into Mongoloid slits, but clearest blue.  
"Nay," said Harry, closing his eyes dramatically and biting his lip afterward, "the dick is you, for flannel sheets are clearly overkill in this, the hot and final week of August."  
Every bit as serious (or completely unserious) as his friend, Ron donned a mask of regretful nostalgia and thus spake:

"Ah but good sir Harold I do recall a certain four-eyed dwarf trading in the cotton sheets for these the current accouterments during a voyage to the linen closet, itself a detour from a greater quest to get... dare I say... hot tea."  
"And surely you also recall, Ronald, that said dwarf returned to the lair of the giant leprechaun only to find that the selfsame behemoth had passed an edict forbidding the opening of any windows to aid in the cooling of that lair?"  
"As well, sir, as I do recall the occasion on which a certain younger sister of that giant (being me) flew by the window on broomstick to glance her youngest elder brother and then-gentleman lover going at it... how you say? Like dogs in heat."  
There was a contemplative quiet as the morning heat permeated the two boys, eventually forcing them to abandon their artificial silence for loud, organic laughter.

"Shit, Harry I though you were just having funny sneeze 'til great flying things started shooting out your schnozz."  
"Oh, Ron, tell me more about Bat-Bogey Hexes. Mmmm, phoar!" Harry flitted his eyelashes accordingly, which Ron had to admit he found fantastically fuckable.

Not bothering to drop the persona of aroused lover, Harry stayed in character and asked Ron, eyelashes positively strobing, to fetch him some orange juice from downstairs. Ron was, unfortunately, lead from the chest down. Which hardly mattered, because he said "You're a dick, Harry. I hate you."  
"Blatant lie."

"No, it's true. I'm only with you so that I can earn your trust (check) and then kill you at the most hilarious possible time to maximize your embarrassment. I expect you hadn't an inkling, eh? But I reckon I'll need to pull a Lockhart on you, as I've just told you my secret plan."

"What? You're going to wipe your own mind clean and spend a few years in St. Mungo's? Cause I think you'll be hard-pressed to find anything to wipe in there."  
"Harry, oh my god, that was literally the best joke I've ever heard. This necessitates a high-five. I mean, I just wanna give you what's coming to you, and it's a high-five. I think I might be in humor-shock, else I'd be dying, literally dying of laughter right now. Quick, gimme some skin before the shock wears off and I..."  
Harry half-slapped half-covered Ron's face with his hands, expertly aimed considering both boys were staring upward at the ceiling. Ron feigned a backwards faint.

"Egad!" cried he, "it must be chloroform, for nothing else can stink so high!"

Harry grinned and mimed shooting Ron in the head with his hand. Ron screwed up his face in genuine confusion. Harry signed and looked heavenward, as if praying for patience.

"Okay, Neville, there's this group of people called Muggles, all right? And they have these things called guns, which..."  
But Neville, no- sorry, Ron cut him off with a mild twist of the nipple (purple-nurple in the parlance of our times) and rolled over, straddling Harry and looking down upon him, full of mock fury.

"Don't you ever compare me to Longbottom again! I'll effing rip you face off. I'll kill your sorry ass. I'll kill your ass. Yeah, I'll kill only your ass. Easy hit, huge target, unlike other things..." Ron's eyes drifted downward, and, without warning, he let himself fall onto Harry.  
"I'm dead," said the dead Ron.

"Dear Ron," started Harry, "Here he lies, we hardly knew him. Thank god. He was a nice lad, full of freckles and stupid dumb perfect teeth, always willing to give you the shirt off his back, provided the shirt was a dry corned beef sandwich his Mum made him on September the first about ten years ago. He knew how to laugh-"  
"Really been ten years?"  
His eulogizing interrupted, Harry blinked.  
"It has been, hasn't it Harry? You said it was August earlier; it's not, it's September the first. We met ten years ago," he looked at the clock, "holy shit, damn near to the hour. We've been buddies for a whole decade now. We've been friends for the lifetime of a ten year old. Weird. Ten year olds can talk and shit. Oh god, there's people born in the nineties! So lame, so freaky, so... gay."

"Yeah," said Harry dreamily, "gay is the worst. Happy, what's it... tin anniversary, mate."  
"Umm, Harry," said Ron in a spot-on impression of a Patil twin saying something she thinks is obvious, and thinks less of you for having to say it, "we like totally didn't even snog until like a year ago, so, technically, you're an idiot who ditched me to hang our with Ron at the Yule Ball."  
A Spot-on impression of Parvati, then.  
"We did in my head," said Harry quietly.  
"Really?" asked Ron, serious for once.

"Yeah. I guess it was one of those, you know," he coughed fakely to cover the word, "...at first sight things."  
"Shut up."  
"I'm serious, Ron."

"Tell me just now, huh? You're a dick, Harry. I love you."  
"Fuck you. I love you too."  
Kiss.  
Ron was just about to get up and get Harry his orange juice when the door squeaked open and Molly peered in. Both boys jumped into place and became rigid as if Petrified, Molly hated when they smooched and screwed instead of helping with chores, or whatever.

"Boys? Messrs. Potter-Weasley? Will we be graced with your presence in the yard for de-gnoming?"  
Silence, except for the ghoul right upstairs nobody noticed anymore.  
"I'll let them sleep in," Molly said to herself, closing the door.  
Harry and Ron were trapped in the hot, uncomfortable bed by their mutual detest for de-gnoming, fully alert and unable to sleep. It wasn't so bad.

Yay.

Hope you liked it

hope you'll review it

HFS


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